


Special of the Day

by TeaAndATale



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, Steggy - Freeform, Steggy Positivity Week 2017, steggyweek2k17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 18:17:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11041629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaAndATale/pseuds/TeaAndATale
Summary: Peggy is homesick in New York City until she escapes the rain in the warm oasis of a bakery.Steggy Week Day 4 - Modern





	Special of the Day

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Steggy Positivity Week 2017  
> Written for Day 4: Modern
> 
> This might quite possible be so sweet it will rot your teeth...

 

Getting a cab in Manhattan during a sudden rainfall is impossible. She walks for blocks shivering, trying to hail a taxi to no avail.

Normally she wouldn’t mind a spot of rain, a seasoned Londoner, the rainfall is a gentle reminder of home. She misses London. Misses home. The New York autumn feels much colder than it ever did in England.

Although she normally always carried an umbrella, the forecast had mentioned no possibility of rain. And then out of nowhere not only was it raining, a thunderclap accompanied a flash of lightning so near it makes her heart jolt.

She sees what looks to be a café across the street and she dashes for it.

Peggy carefully closes the door behind her, looking around the cozy space, a few round tables crammed together, and a bar with stools along the windows as well as at the far side of the counter. But it wasn’t a café she realized. The smells alone identified this place for what it was. A bakery.

The smell of cinnamon made her stomach rumble. She’d had to work all through lunch, having been relegated to taking a meeting that Stane hadn’t bothered to attend even though it was his account not hers.

“My time is a lot more valuable than yours sweetheart,” he’d said to her with a revolting plastered smile.

“Call me sweetheart once more, Mr. Stane, and I’m filing a complaint with HR,” she’d retorted, spinning around and out of the office before she could be told off.

The girl behind the counter gives her a sympathetic smile as Peggy shakes out her fall coat before draping it on a chair at one of the free tables in the almost empty bakery.

It’s not much to look at, although the place is spotlessly clean. But then she glances over at the display case. It was teeming with perfectly arranged baked goods. She makes her way over, her leather boots squishing slightly on the floor. She planned on choosing some bakery staple, maybe a cheese Danish or a blueberry muffin as her eyes roam the display. It all looks appetizing, gorgeous golden brown pastry. It’s stunning. She wonders if it’s just her rumbling stomach speaking.

Then her eyes fixate near the end of the top row.

Neat layered golden sponges. Generous layer of red jam and cream in between. A delicate dusting of icing sugar with a whole raspberry decorating the top.

Individual, miniature Victoria Sandwiches. Looking all the bit traditional as the ones her Nana made for teatime for as long as she could remember.

An excited flutter runs through her. She’s still in disbelief to find the British classic here in a random bakery in Manhattan.

“Excuse me,” Peggy says to the girl. “Are these… Are they made fresh?”

“Yes. Everything’s made fresh,” the girl replies with a nod.

“And that’s definitely raspberry jam?”

“Yeah, raspberry.”

“And the cream? Proper double cream or is it just whipped cream?”

“I…” The girl bit her lip nervously. “I’m pretty sure?”

She didn’t mean to startle the poor girl by grilling her. She supposes it wouldn’t hurt to just try one. The prices were certainly reasonable.

Peggy smiles at the girl. “I’ll take one,” she says pulling out her wallet.

Back at her table, she takes a careful bite. It’s unbelievable. It tastes heavenly. She looks at the modest dessert, the ripples of tart raspberry jam, the perfectly light double cream. The sponge light and airy as a cloud.

Peggy sighs and feels like she’s back in her childhood home having tea with her mum. Of summer picnics of her youth. The smell of her Nana’s kitchen.

The warmth of the bakery works its way into her chest.

By the time she has a second helping, with a rather weak tea, her mood is greatly improved, so much so that she’s not quite ready to leave.

Traditional Victoria Sandwiches in the middle of New York just in time to heal her homesickness. What are the odds?

Peggy makes her way back to the counter.

“Excuse me, could you please call the baker out here?”

The girl looks nervous but she heads to the back.

A tall, blond man, flour coating his apron and his muscular forearms, came out, wiping his hands on a cloth. He’s young. Perhaps around her age. And he’s beautiful. As beautiful as the perfectly golden-baked sponge on her plate.

“How can I help you ma’am?” he asks politely.

“You made these?”

“Yes ma’am.”

She notices him and the girl glance at each other.

“I have never before run into a traditionally made Victoria Sandwich in the States,” she tells him. “They are absolutely perfect. My Nana who whole-heartedly approve.”

The baker’s already handsome face breaks into a stunning smile. The girl lets out a relieved giggle.

“Thank you so much Ms.?”

“Carter. Peggy Carter.”

The baker rocks on his heels before holding out his large hand.

“Steve Rogers.”

“Well Steve, I’m never been so glad the storm forced me into your lovely bakery. Thank you for the absolutely delicious reminder of my home.”

His cheeks turn a very attractive pink, the same color of the delicate pink icing atop the cupcakes on display.

“I’m so happy you enjoyed it.”

“Hell. Could you box me up four more?” she regards the girl. “I’ll surely need the pick-me-up later this afternoon.”

The girl immediately sets out to pack it up for her.

“So… Any other British classics you have hidden in here?” she asks Steve while she waits.

“Not today,” he says apologetically, rubbing his ear. “But I like making custard tarts. And scones.”

Ah, familiar friends of hers. She hums in delight.

“Sounds heavenly. I suppose I’ll have to pop back in.”

He grins, a little shyly, flicking his gaze down, showing off his delicate and ever-so-long lashes.

She licks her lips before pressing them together.

“I hope you do.”

Somehow, suddenly, she’d found a warm safe haven from the cold New York day in the form of a bakery.

Peggy heads back out into the street, the storm calmed and settled, and hails a cab back to Stark Industries. She meant to share with Rose and the other assistants on the floor, but in the end she ends up eating the whole box herself, nothing but crumb and bits of stray jam left to trace her finger through.

 

*

 

When Stane sends her out again to meet with his client the following week, she reminds him of his own responsibilities, but she doesn’t put up the fight that she had earlier. If he was going to neglect his account, she was going to use it to her favor.

And the fact that the bakery was near the meeting, was simply a cherry on top. A treat to look forward to after working out Stane’s mess.

Peggy had dreams of those delectable Victoria Sandwiches at least twice. One definitely included that broad-built baker with those delicate facial features. It had been the first time since coming to New York nine months ago that she didn’t feel quite so out of place.

Working for Howard Stark had not been what she had expected it to be. She had met Howard a year earlier at a conference in London. She’d heard all the legendary tales of his philandering and also of his genius. But she hadn’t expected to actual meet him, or be immediately impressed. Surprisingly, the fact that she didn’t fawn over him like everyone else wasn’t a disadvantage.

Stark was bored, and followed her into the tea room where somehow they fell into a long discussion about technological advances, business strategies and how she found so many of the typical business models and proceedings outdated and downright sexist. She had expected someone like him to be offended, but he didn’t seem blind to the prejudices still plaguing the business world. He took her seriously.

He’d even admitted he was sick of his legacy being his weaponry when he’d never intended for that to be his focus. He couldn’t help what his brain came up with, but he’d never set out to invent military weapons. In fact, apart from his entirely unprofessional over-flirtatious personality, having threatened to knock him out if he hit on her again only for him to laugh and respect her words, she found herself sort of enjoying his company.

And then he offered her a job at his New York headquarters. A good one. And she took it, excited about the prospect of finally making her way up the ladder. She quickly learned that Stark was hardly around, and her real boss became Obadiah Stane. He managed most of the day to day business, especially when Howard was off on international conferences and checking in on all his labs. Which was pretty much always. So she was relegated to the menial tasks considered too good for the men in the office to do. But Peggy was nothing if not good at her job. She’d churn something good out of it sooner or later. Even if she had the occasional doubts. The occasional thoughts about going back to London.

The same girl was at the register, eyes full of recognition as she smiled. Peggy was hoping to find another delicious Victoria Sandwich.

In the display today however were miniature tartes au citron. They were decorated with little lemons outlined in chocolate. Another classic British tea-time pastry. This time she buys four without even bothering to sample one first. She takes a seat at the bar, diving into the first of the tarts.

“So what do you think?” she hears once her fork hits empty plate. It’s the baker, appearing from what she assumes is the kitchen with a tray of assorted baked goods.

“Delicious. Perfectly tart… for a tart” They chuckled in unison. “I love these. They remind me of my childhood. Summer holidays in the countryside, Nana baking up a storm. They always made me feel very elegant and grownup somehow. What made you bake them?”

He shrugs, his cheeks a little pink again, a sight she hadn’t realized until right then that she had longed to see again. “You I guess,” he admits. “You mentioned not running into many British classics in New York. I might have been making lemon tarts all week in case you came in.”

She’s touched, imagining him roll out pastry just in case the British girl walked in. She gives him a soft smile.

“I suppose you’re quite good,” she said biting her lip and quirking her eyebrow at him, “But say if you mastered a more quintessentially British pud, say Sticky Toffee Pudding, then I’d really be impressed.”

He grins widely, head tilting.

“That sounds like a challenge.”

She shrugs playfully, taking another tart out of her box.

“Simply making conversation,” she tells him. “Or a Chelsea Bun or a Battenberg Cake. Oh how I miss those.”

He crosses his arms still smiling. “You should know I’m good at challenges.”

“If you say so,” she replies airily. “I’ve taken over a new account at work. We have meetings not far from here on Mondays and Thursdays. I suppose it’d be likely for me to pop in then.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

His smile, reaching all the way to his eyes, causes butterflies to stir in her stomach.

 

*

 

The next time she walks into the bakery, there’s a chalkboard sign set atop the display case next to a covered cake stand.

 _Baker’s Special of the Day_ it read in neat handwriting with a sketch of the baked good in question.

Today it’s two versions of Battenberg Squares: Lemon and Strawberry as well as Vanilla and Rose. They’re covered in the traditional marzipan. She can’t help but grin.

She hangs around hoping to deliver her compliments to Steve.

“I see you went a bit modern with you flavoring,” she teases once he finally appears, refilling a case of cookies.

“Baker’s creative license,” he tosses back easily. “And you didn’t say I couldn’t put my own spin on them.”

“Touché.” She laughs. “Both are lovely. And I can honestly say I’ve never had these flavor combinations in a Battenberg. My stomach thanks you. Truly. It’s always a treat to walk out of your bakery with a sated stomach.”

His blush grows more pronounced. “I’m just glad you’re enjoying my bakes.”

“How long have you been at this bakery?”

“I bought it almost two years ago from the previous owner just before he retired.”

“You’re the owner,” she said with surprise.

Steve nodded. “He was going to just close up shop entirely since it was a family place and none of his relatives were interested. But I’d been looking into getting a place. It’s small but he had the most incredible custom kitchen put in, modernized too, but there’s still a traditional bread oven circa World War II. I loved how much history was still in the place. Anyway, I think he felt bad for me. You know, since it’s not quite the lucrative business these days when you’re fighting large chains.”

“But he sold it to you anyway.”

“Yeah. I like to think he was happy his bakery got to stay a bakery in the end.”

He was fascinating, the combination of his gentle mannerisms and his obvious endless talent was stunning.

“How long have you been baking?”

He let out a breath. “Long as I can remember. I have some early memories baking Irish soda bread with my grandparents. And then later baking with my ma. She was such a great natural baker. It was always a dream of hers when she was young to own a bakery. She didn’t get that chance though.”

“I can’t imagine she’s not massively proud of you.”

He continues to smile softly but the sadness in his eyes is plain to see.

“She, um, passed away not long after I graduated from culinary school.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He smiles a little stronger. “It’s alright. She’d love it, even for the hole in the wall that it is.”

“Well I was reliably told New Yorkers love their hole in the walls. And absolutely everything I’ve sampled has been exceptional.”

“Well thank you Ms. Carter.”

“It’s Peggy,” she tells him with a smile.

He grins. “Peggy.” He points his thumb back into the depths of the bakery. “I have to go check on the dough for my buns,” he tells her.

She’s not ashamed of having checked out his buns on his way back into the kitchen.

 

*

  
She finds herself on the corner of Steve’s bakery quite a few times in the next few weeks, despite the fact that she wasn’t always passing through the area. She picks up a boxes of assorted pastries that strike her fancy from the display: rich salted caramel fudge brownies, macarons in every color and flavor imaginable, brioche buns, even baguettes. It’s hard not to splurge when every new item she tastes brings joy into her dismal days.

Peggy even starts bringing in baked good to work from Steve’s, happily supplying Rose and all the others on her floor with morning Danishes and afternoon cookies. There are loud moans of pleasure and many assistants coming in to her office to ask half-hearted questions just for a chance to sneak another. She doesn’t mind as it means she has a fun story to pass along to the baker.

“Hello Lizzie,” Peggy greets cheerfully one morning.

With as many times as Peggy’s come into the bakery in the last few weeks, they’d become very friendly. Lizzie was a sister of Steve’s best friend, having worked the counter for Steve since he first opened. The hours were flexible and she was close to all her college classes, which Steve never let her go to hungry.

“Hey Peggy. How’s work?”

“Oh you know, same old infuriating corporate assholes. Say, you think you have enough muffins for twelve? I have a conference meeting today with a load of asses who could use a snack to keep their mouths occupied.”

Lizzie laughs. “I think we’re short on muffins. The apple walnut ones went real fast today. But we have some chocolate croissants left to round out a dozen.”

“That’ll work. Make it a baker’s dozen will you?”

The addition of croissants and muffins goes over so well, she finds herself back at Steve’s the following day.

“You know,” she tells him, “I know I should be offended that they requested I be the one to get the baked goods for a meeting I’m not even a part of. ‘Because you’re so much better at that sort of thing Marge,’” she quotes with an exasperated huff. “But honestly, getting out of the office and the opportunity for something delicious from your shop, well I can hardly argue with that.”

Steve chuckles at her, sliding over a rye roll for her to try. She pulls out her wallet but he immediately waves her away.

“On the house, what with you giving me so much business lately, you’re practically my best customer.”

“Business still slow?”

He ducks his head, shoulders hunched a little and shrugs. She hates that she’s embarrassed him. She only wants to help.

“We’ll manage,” he says with a half-smile, before tapping the plate he set in front of her. “Now, come on, need your honest opinion and all that.”

It’s delicious of course, and she insists he’s the most talented baker she’s ever come across. While Lizzie packs up her baked goods, Steve retreated back in the kitchen, she gets an idea.

“Say Lizzie,” she says. “Do me a favor won’t you? Tuck a few business cards in there for me as well.”

Lizzie does. The business cards are beautiful and she learns from Lizzie that Steve had designed them himself, that his artistic ability didn’t lie solely in decorating cakes. She finds herself tucking one away into her wallet for safekeeping.

 

*

 

She’d been having a bad week, her pride a little hurt at not being asked along to an important conference despite the topic in question was one of her specialties. She’d had to prep Hodge in her stead, her professionalism warring with utter outrage that this imbecile was going in her place. Hodge, who hadn’t done a shred of real work he hadn’t aped from someone else, since she started the job.

“I’m a glorified secretary,” she complained to Steve at the counter while he was putting the finishing touches on a cake that had been special ordered. “That’s how they treat me. When half of them have their own assistants already. They don’t even call it that anymore you know. Secretary has too many overtones of sexism. But Executive Assistant is a lot of bollocks as a title too. It’s not like these assistants are even being fairly compensated for the amount of work they actually do. They’re practically paid pennies for the hours they put in. Calls at all hours of the day and night. I don’t think Stane could tie his shoes without them all. Not that he cares when greasing palms over a round of golf is what business is all about,” she mutters angrily.

“I’m sorry Peggy. You deserve to have your work recognized,” Steve replied, pausing in his work.

“I’ve been in New York for what, eleven months now. I thought it’d be different. I thought…” She let out a sigh, scraping her fork through a delicious slice of Steve’s special of the day, a rich Chocolate and Hazelnut Swiss Roll.

“One sec,” Steve says, finishing up piping flowers and boxing the cake up. She watches him take it back into the kitchen and after a few minutes he returns with a plate and sets it down in front of her.

“My grandma’s soda bread recipe,” he says, slicing her a generous wedge and setting a bit of butter on her plate. “Whenever I was sad or upset, she’d take me into the kitchen and we’d knead out dough. I’d watch it rise in the oven. Then, we’d sit and eat together, the bread still warm so the butter would melt and trickle down the sides. Something about it always made me feel a little better.” He taps the edge of her ceramic plate. “So take a deep breath and let the Irish soda bread work its magic.”

She smiles, slathering the piece with butter. She lets the simplicity of the moment, good bread and his earnest eyes, sweep her away.

“Good huh?”

“Very,” she replies. She could just picture a small boy Steve baking bread with his grandmother full of concentration. “Sorry for ranting.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he says, shaking his head. “You said Stark gave you that job himself. That’s not nothing. I know you’re frustrated. But this is all gonna come back to bite these guys sooner or later, believe me.”

She lets out another sigh. “Maybe.”

“Can you talk to Stark?”

“If he were ever around. And I mean I haven’t even been there a year. I suppose I’m just impatient.” She makes a show of waving her hands. “Anyway. How’s the bakery?”

“Same old, same old,” he says with a shrug. “Though the few special ordered cakes I have for the next week is good news.”

She nods. She wished she could help him more. There was no good reason in her book for an exceptional baker to not be having the success he deserved.

“What about specialty coffee or tea to pair with your bakes?” Peggy suggest on one visit. “It’d be a good hit with your breakfast crowd I imagine. Nothing like fueling up before work.”

“That’s probably a smart idea. Probably should have considered that earlier. But I wouldn’t know where to look for a good supplier.”

She may not be able to make her business acumen count in the eyes of Obadiah Stane, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t help make a difference elsewhere.

“This is New York. There’s plenty of great coffee. And plenty of independent roasters who’d love to do a partnership. And I insist you get some stronger tea.”

With her lighter workload that week, she has plenty of time to do research. She brings Steve a list of Peggy-approved coffee and tea suppliers, already having worked out preliminary negotiations with a few to knock their quotes down.

A couple weeks later she gets to pair salted caramel eclairs with a latte, and a slice of iced walnut cake with a good strong cup of tea.

 

*

 

It’s a dreary winter day, perfect for running into Steve’s and coming across his specialty of the week: tea and biscuits or cookies and cocoa. It’s busier than usual and she sees mugs and plates on each occupied table: college students with open laptops, a mother with her two kids, even a business man yapping away on his phone while simultaneously stuffing his face with a plate of cookies, crumbs flying everywhere. It’s a bit appalling, but as this is at least business for Steve, and clearly a more than satisfactory sale, she doesn’t even shoot him a dirty look.

The new girl is behind the counter today, already beaming at Peggy from the doorway.

“Hiya English,” Angie says.

“Hello Angie. Looks busy today.”

“Totally. Can’t beat oven warm cookies in this freeze. Steve’s been bringing out new batches every half hour. And lemme tell ya, I’ve had five myself already.”

She laughs and takes her perusal of the display.

“Tea in the meantime Peg?”

“Yes please Ang,” she says, taking a seat at the bar.

It’s been a while since she’d seen Steve himself. They had both been busy, neither having a lot of time even for a quick chat. Still, she’d popped in for a pastry or two on her way back uptown. She was glad it seemed business had picked up, thrilled to have his bakery full, glad others were aware of Steve’s talents the way she was. Rose herself had told her she’d special ordered pies from him to bring to both her family’s Christmas and New Year celebrations.

Between her new project at work, and his new business initiatives, it looked like they were both getting a good head start on the new year.

 

*

 

She can hear the music and laughter from down the street. She received the invitation from Angie a week ago but she hadn’t really known what to expect. The bakery was holding a closed-door cheese and wine night and already from the outside it looked like the event was a hit. Most of the tables were set away to make more open space and there were glittery streamers strung up from the ceilings, and simple but elegant floral arrangements along the bar. Everyone was dressed up, laughing and clinking glasses in the dim lighting.

Angie bounced over for a hug, followed by Lizzie. In overlapping chatter they tell her what’s what, pointing out trays of crackers Steve made especially for the event. They point out friends they want to introduce her to, only to get sucked back into different groups themselves.

Then she spots him.

Even Steve, who’d she had never seen out of his apron, was dressed up. Wearing a nice deep blue button up, cuffed at the forearm, with a dark tie matching his slacks, he was leaning against the bar with a glass of wine, separate from the crowd with a frown on his face. He never looked so out of place in his own bakery.

She heads right to him.

“Well someone looks miserable,” she teases.

He immediately stands straighter, eyes wide, a smile playing on his lips.

“Peggy.”

It dawns on her that he hadn’t expected her. That he hadn’t anticipated she would come. She wonders if he knew she’d been invited at all.

“Hello,” she says with an easy smile. “Fancy affair you’re having. The place looks lovely.”

“Thanks. Seems like people are enjoying it.”

“But not you.”

He shrugs sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “I’m not so good at crowds of people. Never know what to say. Especially when I don’t have the faintest idea who any of them are. You can probably imagine I wasn’t invited to a lot of parties in high school.”

“I imagine you didn’t miss out on as much as you’d think.”

He cracks a grin. “My bud Bucky delivered on packing the place. He’s always had a large following of girls who loved him anywhere he went. Everyone at his firm loves him. And I swear he’s never anything but a gentleman to all of them. Though I don’t even think these are his work friends. As long as it’s going well I guess.”

His discomfort was too obvious.

“You want to get out of here? Go somewhere quiet?”

His eyes light up. He nods and quickly glancing at the busy crowd that pays them no attention, he ushers her through the door into the back and into the kitchen.

He swings a bottle of wine from his hidden supplies and she grins when he offers it, pouring her a generous glass.

“Did you get anything to eat out there?”

“No, just came in.”

He holds up a finger and dashes back toward the party. He returns with a full platter of cheese and a neat arrangement of crackers.

“Tell me about them,” she insists, perched on the stool he pulled up for her.

His smile split widely.

“For your pleasure madam, the selection I have especially for you tonight,” he said in his best server voice, making her giggle.

He describes every cracker he made from scratch; from thyme and caramelized onion, sea salt and cracked pepper cracker, to parmesan squares; along with his recommendations for cheese pairing, from goat cheese to aged cheddar. As everything Steve has made, it’s delicious. Savory salty goodness, perfect to chase down with the bottle of red they’d been sharing.

Within the oven warm privacy of his kitchen, he opens up, and they fell into the rapport that had so easily been formed since the first time they met.

From starting with discussing their days, they end up deep in the thick of a conversation about everything else too.

He tells her about culinary school, about his decision to become a pastry chef, studying French patisserie, and how he worked in some of the best restaurants in Brooklyn and Manhattan. He tells her about how the pretentious atmosphere was stifling, how it all felt so impersonal, and how he hated making teeny desserts for exorbitant prices for the sake of making rich people feel above everyone else. And then, after fighting with the sous chef and owner of the last restaurant he worked with, where they’d bumped a black couple for a wealthy wall-street-type without a reservation, because he looked more on brand, had been the last straw for Steve.

Everyone told him he’d been making a mistake. Except for his friend Bucky. He’d told him to use the opportunity to get back to doing what he loved. He had helped Steve look for real estate, even offered to help fund him even though Steve hated the idea of taking his oldest friend’s money.

Despite him admitting to being nervous at parties, about being bad at talking to people, it’d been the most pleasurable conversation she could recall having in ages. Not only did he talk with passion, but he was a good listener. He’d asked about her job, about how she’d decided to come to New York. She’d even admitted to feeling rather homesick and aimless not doing the work she had anticipated.

They’d somehow found themselves propping the backdoor open and leaning between the wall and fire escape in the alley. Despite wanting a reprieve from the warm kitchen, she shivered at the cool night, so much so that Steve ran in to get his jacket to drape over her shoulders. They refilled their glasses with the last of the bottle, huddling close but not touching.

They’d been laughing together about something she could hardly remember because he was so close she could feel his breath on his cheek. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him. Close enough for an intimate view of those long lashes. Close enough to have her wine-muddled mind further jumbled.

“Yo Steve you don’t gotta hide in the kitchen—” a voice suddenly rang out making them jump apart.

A second later a brown-haired guy poked his head out into the alley making Steve spring further away from her. His cheeks were very red as the interloper looks between them.

“Oh hey Buck,” Steve says, clearing his voice. “Did you need something?”

The guy raised his eyebrow before smirking their way.

“Nope. Never mind. Carry on,” he says with a wink before slipping back inside.

“So that’s Lizzie’s brother?” she asks to break the silence.

“Huh?” Steve asks distractedly. “Oh yeah. Yeah. That’s Bucky.”

Despite the innocuous interruption, the mood broke. They head back into the kitchen and although they continue their conversation, she feels like Steve lost his nerve. She thinks she might have too.

Still, her heart beat at a hard staccato.

All night, back in her lonely apartment, she wonders what would have happened if they hadn’t been interrupted.

 

*

 

After a long morning at the office, then enveloped in back to back meetings, she didn’t worry about giving herself an early day, not bothering to return to the office after her last afternoon meeting when she’d already emailed all the pertinent paperwork.

It’s no surprise she finds herself heading to Steve’s bakery. She supposes if there’s ever an excuse to treat herself with something sweet, it’s her birthday.

She’d made a deal with herself earlier. If she spots Steve she’ll ask him to join her for a birthday drink. And if not, it’s not like her birthday is a big deal. She’ll still have cake or something else from his bakery to keep her company.

Angie smiles at her from behind the counter where she’s working the espresso machine. Peggy tries to not crane her neck for a sighting of Steve. Her stomach is an odd, embarrassing mess. There’s no sight of him.

She steels her nerve and focuses on checking the display. The colorful chalkboard catches her eye.

_Baker’s Special of the Day: Birthday Cake_

She swears she can feel her heart thrash against her ribcage. It can’t be. Just a wild coincidence. Unrelated to her.

“So? Baker’s special, English?” Angie asks once she’s finished making someone’s latte. She’s raising her eyebrows a little too suspiciously.

“I… Sure.”

Angie bounces away into the kitchen. She returns in a moment but she’s not carrying anything. Steve walks out a moment later carrying something on a cake display. He sets it in front of her with a smile.

It’s a modest sized cake. The flutters in her stomach intensify. The shiny chocolate ganache top is decorated with perfectly sculpted fondant roses in both red and pink. Happy Birthday Peggy is piped in painstakingly perfect cursive icing. It’s beautiful. And her heart feels so full she’s lost control of her body.

“Happy Birthday English!” Angie calls out in cheerful sing-song.

She looks up at her and then at Steve who is still smiling at her, his hands behind his back. He made her a birthday cake.

“It’s a dark chocolate and hazelnut cake with raspberry cream and curd between the layers. And the middle sponge is all hazelnut,” he explains to her in a slightly wobbly tone.

“I… You made me a birthday cake.”

He tilts his head at her. “Well, yeah. It’s your birthday.”

“This is incredible Steve,” she says, still awestruck. “It looks absolutely amazing.”

“Did you see those roses? He made them all by hand!” Angie calls from her spot back by the register.

Steve grins but he’s rubbing at his neck.

“I’d expect nothing less of him,” she tells Angie with a chuckle.

“So slice of cake with some tea?” Steve asks, poised with a knife.

She bites her lip.

“No.”

“Oh,” he blurts out nervously.

“I get a birthday wish right?” she asks. “What time do you get off? I want to share my birthday cake with you. Maybe over a drink or something?”

His cheeks turn the same color as her fondant roses. But he’s nodding. “Yes.”

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Angie clap her hands over her mouth and bounce. But for the moment, her focus is on Steve and his pretty blush.

He asks Angie to make Peggy a cup of tea, and sets a slice of the other birthday cake he’d actually made for the rest of his customers to order as the day’s special.

“So? What time are you free?” she asks him.

He checks his phone, working something out as he taps at it.

“Are… Did you have plans for later?”

“Not other than a drink with you,” she tells him.

He grins. “It’s your birthday. You should celebrate.” She shrugs. “I’ll do you one better. What if we share your cake after dinner? Someplace nice?”

“Will this dinner include a drink?”

“Definitely. Meet me back here at seven.”

 

*

 

She hopes she’s not overdressed as she heads to meet Steve. But she doesn’t care too much. Not when she’s going out to dinner with Steve for her birthday.

The bakery has long been closed down but she spots Steve behind the counter as she knocks at the door. He rushes to open it.

“Hi,” he says a little breathlessly. He’s dressed up too she notices.

“Hi Steve.”

“Let me just grab your cake, and we can get going.”

Her cake was tucked safely in a bakery box that Steve carried as they headed out.

“Where are we going?” she asks in the cab.

“Dinner,” he says grinning.

He leads her into a restaurant. A nice one. Upscale. Known not only as a hot New York brunch spot, but one of the more sought after dinner reservation.

She can’t imagine how he pulled this off. And how much it’s going to cost.

“Steve—”

“It’s okay,” he says seeming to read her thoughts. “I know the owner, Sam. He’s a culinary school buddy of mine and he owes me a lot and I’ve never taken him up on a favor until now. And he’s a-ok with us bringing our own dessert.”

The maître d’ knows him and leads them immediately to a candlelit table. As she peruses the menu she cannot believe he arranged this. And at the shortest of notices.

“I cannot believe you did this.”

“You’re worth it.”

The urge to be closer to him nearly swallows her. Luckily, the sommelier appears with wine recommendations. She’s given the deciding choice as she’s offered the first taste.

“You know, I’m more of a whiskey girl than anything, but this is some tasty.”

Steve laughs. “A nice whiskey will pair nicely with dessert.”

Dinner is delicious and more elegant than anything she’d bother to have on her own since moving to New York. The head chef and owner, Sam Wilson, came over just after they finished their main course. He’s easy going and slaps Steve’s shoulder before wishing her a heartfelt Happy Birthday.

“Alright Rogers, let me see that cake you made her.”

“You’re not getting a sample Sam,” he warns. “It’s her cake.”

“Well as you pointed out it is mine, I can be the judge of whom to share my cake with.”

Sam laughed. “Oh, I like her.”

Steve carefully opened up the box to Sam’s perusal.

“This guy, he’s got a gift. Cooking no problem, but I can’t bake for shit. But him? Give him some flour and eggs and he’ll make something special out of nothing.”

“Believe me, I’ve noticed,” she says. “You’re more than welcome to a slice.”

“Ah! But not now. She hasn’t even blown her candle out.”

Before she can protest, Sam swipes a candle out of his pocket, setting it atop the cake before lighting it. The two of them, and then the nearby waiters and diners start to sing her Happy Birthday. It’s horribly embarrassing, and wonderfully sweet all at once. She keeps her eyes fixed on Steve. As promised, Sam gets served a slice of cake before he returns to the kitchen. The rich cake is deliciously sweet, indulgent chocolate with the reprieve of sharp raspberry.

It’s a perfect birthday.

It’s only a shame the night has to end at all.

She’s relieved when Steve insists on escorting her all the way home. They sit touching in the cab. Neither can stop grinning wildly at the other.

“This has been a perfect birthday night,” she tells him as they stand facing each other outside her building. “Thank you Steve.”

“You’re welcome Peggy,” he says in a low voice that moves her trancelike closer to him.

“I wish I had asked you out sooner,” she murmurs.

He nods, coming even closer, his hands coming up touch her arms.

“Me too,” he whispers. “Should have done it months ago.”

She lets out a hum as her arms wind around his neck. She stares up into his eyes then down at his lips. Steve closes the gap. She gasps against his lips, meeting him with the same fervor, hearts beating against one another.

It’s the very best birthday present as the only thing sweeter than Steve’s bakes, and his smiles, are his kisses.


End file.
